I stand there longer than I should, knowing this might be one of the last times she ever really sees me.
She does that sometimes- becomes my mom again. I know that if I could get her away from my dad and drugs, that we could be a family, but he has too strong a hold on her. It’ll never happen.
At this point, I can only save myself.
When she finally falls asleep, I rush to my room and packeverythingI ownintoa smallduffelbagandhurryout to my car. The door is already open, but there is nothing damaged. A win is a win.
I have enough gas to make it a couple of hundred miles. I can go anywhere. All I have to do is choose a direction. I take a deep breath and pull out onto the road with a small smile on my face.
Chapter One
Welcome to a world where skin is the canvas, pain is part of the process, and every line tells a story, whether you like that story or not. This isn’t just tattooing, it’s a spectacle. Bold artists. Big risks. One chance to win one million dollars… or explain a bad decision your canvas gets to keep for the rest of their life. This is where ink meets adrenaline.
I’m your host, Ewan McManus. Join me as fifty of the world’s most incredible tattoo artists compete for the grand prize. By this time next week, only twenty-five will be left standing. The restwill be going home to explain their loss to friends, family, and very disappointed mirrors. These artists have big ideas, real skin, and absolutely no undo button.
Hale
Eight Years Later
Iwelcome the blast of arctic air as I step into the convention center. The oppressive summer heat outside nearly drove me to the brink of madness, and that was only a five-minute walk across the parking lot. I wipe my sleeve across my forehead and shiver as the sweat cools against my back, goosebumps rising in its wake.
The place is packed. Noise, movement, color, too much of everything, all at once. My eyes jump from booth to booth as anxiety claws its way up my spine. I tap my fingers against my thigh, counting slowly under my breath until the jitters ease into something manageable.
Then I see my friend Eric waving like an absolute lunatic from the very back wall, both arms in the air like he’s flagging down a rescue helicopter. I snort unattractively and make my way through the crowd.
I met Eric back when I was living in South Louisiana. We worked at the same tattoo shop and became fast friends, bonding over negligent parents and a shared love for old-school ink. Our childhoods were different in the details but identical where it counted. My parents ignored me because drugs mattered more, and his parents ignored him because he presented as the only beta in a family full of alphas.
One night, he spotted me sleeping in my car and offered me his couch. He lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in a quiet neighborhood. His parents bought it for him after his presentation at seventeen. He said it was more for them so they wouldn’t have to see the disappointment they’d made every day. I stayed there for a few years, using hispooltoshiftandsavingeverysparedollaruntilIcould afford a place of my own. My studio apartment is in a shitty part of town, but it’s clean. It’s mine. I love it.
Over time, our names started to circulate in the tattoo world, thanks mostly to social media and word of mouth. We no longer survive on ramen and blind optimism. Eric is the best person I know, even if he’s a little unhinged sometimes.
“This is the best spot you could get?” I tease, gesturing to our less-than-stellar placement.
Our “booths” are crammed into the farthest corner of the event room, shoved up against an industrial-looking exit door. There’s barely enough space to move around the tables wedged in front of our chairs. Prime real estate, clearly.
Eric rolls his chocolate-brown eyes beneath his bushy brows before pulling me into a crushing hug. He’s a big, soft-hearted teddy bear trapped in the body of someone who looks like he chops wood for fun. His head is shaved close, his chubby cheeks hidden behind a thick auburn beard he’s been growing since before I met him. Broad shoulders, a solid belly, and a woodsy scent complete the illusion of a terrifying lumberjack instead of a tattoo artist with impeccably realistic detail.
“You’re lucky they even let two bozos like us in here,” he says.
I knock my fist against his meaty shoulder and move to start setting up my station. “You mean you’re lucky they letyouin here,” I shoot back, dripping with completely unwarranted confidence. “They practically begged me.”
It took two years of applying to Tattoo Spectacle before the producers finally added me to the roster. The competition reality show has tattoo artists compete against each other to win a one-million-dollar cash prize. Each year, they select a small number of artists from around the world, and this year, I’m one of fifty competing.
“Doors open in thirty minutes. Please sanitize your stations and turn in your final paperwork before we begin,” a monotone woman named Nadine announces over the loudspeaker system.
A spark of anxious terror rips through my system, and my hands shake as I focus on methodically organizing all of my supplies. I lay my sample book and sign-up sheet on the white folding table set up in front of my makeshift booth and make sure all the information is correct with my paperwork before turning it in. I hustle back to my spot as the doors open and a crowd of people excitedly floods the large space.
The first being in my chair is an elf with long black hair and pointed ears. He has lots of experience with tattoos, butmostofthemseemtobeofterriblequality.Hewantsa piece that’ll cover most of his chest. A necromancer in a graveyard filled with bone hands sticking out of the ground.
“I’m just making sure, but you know this isn’t accurate, right?” I confer with the client. “Necromancers can’t raiseskeletal remains.”
He nods his head eagerly. “Yeah, man. I want it to look like one of those old movies from before creatures were public knowledge. I love the hilarity of vintage horror films. They’re, like, the highest form of entertainment, man.”
I narrow my gaze as a strong skunk-like smell hits me. His bloodshot eyes and goofy grin tell me everything I need to know. He’s high. Probably just weed, but he’s still too far gone for me to feel comfortable tattooing him, especially when he’s asking for something borderline offensive.
I discreetly wave down one of the helpers, explain the situation, and after a small but loud confrontation, they skillfully escort the pissed-off stoner elf away. Another being takes his place, and it’s like nothing ever happened.
Cameras move throughout the large space, capturing everything that happens. One camera follows closely behind the show host as he talks to random people in the crowd. He’s a human, seemingly beta, covered head to toe in old-schoolmilitary-styletattoos.Helookslikehebelongsin basic training as a drill sergeant rather than hosting a popular reality TV show. The aggressive and abrasive way he speaks startles some artists, adding another layer of difficulty to the competition. I chuckle under my breath as one contestant shakes his hand out after the host finally releases it from his grasp in a violent handshake. Doing linework with a sore hand is going to be a bitch.
